Any Genuine Work Of Art Generates New

Art Is Not Difficult Because It Wishes To Be Difficult, Rather Because It Wishes To Be Art. However Much The Writer Might Long To Be Straightforward, These Virtues Are No Longer Available To Him. He Discovers That In Being Simple, Honest, Straightforward, Nothing Much Happens.

The Death Of God Left The Angels In A Strange Position. They Were Overtaken Suddenly By A Fundamental Question. One Can Attempt To Imagine The Moment. How Did They Look At The Instant The Question Invaded Them, Flooding The Angelic Consciousness, Taking Hold With Terrifying Force? The Question Was, "what Are Angels?" New To Questioning, Unaccustomed To Terror, Unskilled In Aloneness, The Angels (we Assume) Fell Into Despair.

--why Are We Fighting Them? --they're Mad. We're Sane. --how Do We Know? --that We're Sane? --yes. --am I Sane? --to All Appearances. --and You, Do You Consider Yourself Sane? --i Do. --well, There You Have It. --but Don't They Also Consider Themselves Sane? --i Think They Know. Deep Down. That They're Not Sane. --how Must That Make Them Feel? --terrible, I Should Think. They Must Fight Ever More Fiercely, In Order To Deny What They Know To Be True. That They Are Not Sane.

Any Genuine Work Of Art Generates New Work.

Yes, Success Is Everything. Failure Is More Common. Most Achieve A Sort Of Middling Thing, But Fortunately One's Situation Is Always Blurred, You Never Know Absolutely Quite Where You Are.